


The Games We Play

by why_me_why_not



Category: Supernatural
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-09-24
Updated: 2016-09-24
Packaged: 2018-08-17 02:43:06
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,847
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8127290
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/why_me_why_not/pseuds/why_me_why_not
Summary: Dean needs a reminder of who he belongs to.





	

**Author's Note:**

> Written for Wendy, for one of her many prompts, b/c I love her. Beta'd by De & Athena; any remaining mistakes are mine. Falls in the same 'verse as Happy Birthday Sammy and What's To Come. Originally posted June 2006.
> 
> Disclaimer: I don't own Supernatural or the Winchester boys, much as I'd like to.

Sam's been nursing the same beer for over an hour, pretending to be interested in the game showing on the big screen on the wall. Really, though, he's watching his brother chat up some girl on the other side of the bar. 

There's a sea of noise and people between them, so Sam can't hear what's being said, but he can imagine. He's seen his brother in action on more than one occasion. He knows the whiskey-roughened timbre of Dean's voice, the way words roll off his tongue with the consistency of honeyed sin. 

Dean and the girl (short and blonde and everything Sam's not) are sitting so close she may as well be in his lap, and the hand she has on his leg is a bit too proprietary for Sam's liking. When Dean leans a bit closer, whispering in her ear, she blushes even as her eyes widen in anticipation. 

Too bad for her whatever Dean's promising will never happen. 

Dean doesn't look up until Sam grabs his arm. "Hey, Sammy! Have you met--"

"We're leaving," Sam interupts. He doesn't care to add a name to the girl he's developed an extreme dislike for just because Dean was flirting with her. "Now."

"Dude, what the hell?" The look in Dean's eyes is a mixture of confusion and bemusement.

Sam doesn't answer, just tightens his grip on Dean's arm and pulls him towards the door. He doesn't release his hold until they reach the car, and then he holds out his hand.

"Keys." He almost expects Dean to argue, is waiting for Dean to push him just a little because that's all it'd take for him to go over the edge. 

Dean doesn't argue, though, just fishes the keys out of his pocket and hands them over. His hand lingers for a moment over Sam's, and Sam's anger falters, but only until the girl from the bar comes out the door and starts in their direction. Sam takes the keys and gives his brother a not-so-gentle push toward the passenger side of the car. 

The tires of the Impala squall as Sam pulls out of the parking lot a little too fast. Sam's only acknowledgement of Dean's "Hey, easy with my car!" is a conciliatory pat on the dashboard -- he knows the Impala understands. Dean's been hers for a long time.

Dean always seems to find a bar close to the motel, or maybe he just picks their motel based on its proximity to the bars; Sam's not sure, but either way it makes for a thankfully short trip. 

"What's got your panties in such a twist, Sammy?" Dean asks when Sam pulls up in front of their room and slams the car up in Park. He looks like he's not sure if he should be taking Sam's glares seriously or not, but he's buzzed enough that he shakes it off with one of his aren't-I-so-charming, everyone-wants-me grins.

Dean's still running his mouth as he trails Sam inside. 

"Seriously, man, what was that all about? Afraid you're gonna turn into a pumpkin or something? I hate to break it to you, princess, but --"

Sam spins around and pushes Dean up against the door, sliding one of his legs between Dean's thighs. He's not sure if it's the surprise of the sudden move or just having the air knocked out of him that quiets Dean, but either way, it works. 

Sam pushes in closer, trapping his brother against the door as he leans in to whisper in his ear, his voice taut and ragged. "Just shut the fuck up, Dean. You know what this is about."

"Aww, c'mon, Sam!" Dean starts to protest. "We were just--"

Sam nips Dean's lower lip. "I said, _shut up_. And I know what you were _just_." He kisses Dean then, hard and hungry and possessive. "You think this only works one way? That it's okay for you to go off and flirt with whoever you want when you carry a handcuff key around on your keyring like a badge of possession?" Sam can feel Dean's erection against his thigh through the layers of denim. An unbidden thought flitters through his mind, asking if Dean's hard for him or if he's still thinking of the girl in the bar. He sweeps the thought away as quickly as it comes. It doesn't matter who caused it; it's going to be Sam who finishes it.

Sam shifts his weight so that there's no space between Dean and the wall, even less between him and Sam. "You weren't _just talking_. I was watching. I didn't like it." Sam's voice is a harsh whisper, threat and promise, anger and uncertainty rolled up as one. He leans in for a hungry, demanding, _possessive_ kiss.

When he pulls back, they're both breathing hard, and Sam's proud of the way his voice doesn't waver when he says, "You wanna play games, Dean? Because I think you forget just how well I know you."

He licks the line of skin just above the collar of Dean's shirt while his fingers attack the buckle of Dean's belt, working from memory. He slides one hand inside Dean's jeans and wraps it around his cock while he pushes Dean's jeans and boxers down with the other. He runs his tongue along the shell of Dean's ear before whispering, "Do you think there's _anyone_ who knows better than I do how to touch you? I used to watch you, you know, even before we started all this. I _know_ what you like."

Dean's head hits the wall with a dull thud; Sam doesn't know if it's from the words or from the way he's sliding/twisting/pulling _just so_. He moves his hand with practiced ease, pressing his own hard on against Dean's leg, and he's still talking, spouting nonsense and phrases that are all variations of the same theme, probably repeating himself, but that's okay. He just needs something to balance the way the air hangs heavy in the room with only the sound of their ragged breathing breaking the silence. He needs the words to help himself maintain his resolve. 

"I know every scar on your body, and the story behind each one." 

Sam runs his tongue along the raised skin just behind Dean's left ear, a barely noticeable souvenier that wasn't from a hunt; a pissed off, teenaged Sam had hurled a plate at the kitchen wall one night and Dean had walked in just in time to be hit with one of the shards. 

"I know you like to think you own me." 

Dean's thrusting his hips into Sam's touch as Sam teases the skin on his neck, lightly scraping it with his teeth, before he pulls back to look at Dean. He keeps up the rhythm of his hand and waits for Dean's lust-hazy eyes to meet his own. 

"But you're mine too. And you should know I don't like to share."

Dean's eyes close and he lets his head fall back once more as he comes. Sam brings his hand to his mouth with a grin and licks his fingers before taking a step backwards. Dean gives up a noise of protest when he does, but his eyes are still closed and he doesn't move away from the door. Sam takes a moment to memorize the sight in front of him: Dean leaning against the door, his sticky t-shirt visibly rising and falling with every shallow breath, eyes closed and still managing to look smug and satisfied (the way he only looks after he comes, and if Sam has his way, no one else will know that look but him), pants pushed down just enough to reveal his cock (which is an impressive visual even half soft).

Sam quickly shucks his clothes and swipes the lube from the top of Dean's duffel. He kisses Dean again, slower this time but no more gentle than before, and when he pulls away he whispers, "Turn around."

Dean complies and Sam presses up against him, wishing momentarily that Dean was naked too, but the rough scratch of denim against his legs and the soft rub of cotton against his chest add different dimensions to the sensations already coursing through him; it's like all his senses have been kicked into overdrive and he wants this so badly he can almost taste it and if he doesn't quit thinking about it, it's going to be over before he even gets started. 

He quickly slicks up his fingers as he pushes Dean's feet slightly further apart with one of his own, and then he slides his hand along the crack of Dean's ass and unceremoniously pushes two fingers inside; there's a time for patience and easy and taking their time, but now isn't it. He can't bite back the moan that slips out, and he's somehow lost the words he was able to control earlier. He works a third finger in alongside the first two and breathes out "Oh, god, Dean!" in response to the noises Dean's making. 

Sam closes his eyes and bites lightly at the back of Dean's neck as he fucks Dean with his fingers, but he can only hold out so long. And then he's replacing his hand with his cock and as he thrusts inside in one fluid motion, he growls out "Mine" in affirmation, as if there were any doubt. Dean's got his left arm braced on the wall in front of him, his forehead resting against it, and his right hand is covering Sam's where it's splayed tightly across his hip. Tomorrow Dean's going to have bruises in the design of Sam's fingertips, and Sam distractedly hopes they take a long time to fade because maybe Dean needs to see that brand when he looks in the mirror to remind him where he belongs. Who he belongs to. 

Sam's not sure which one of them is responsible for the ragged moans that come on the wave of each of his thrusts, but they sound like reward, and when a soft "Sammy" reaches his ears, the first word Dean's actually said through all this, he comes with an intensity that makes his vision explode in a starburst of light. 

He leans heavily against Dean, feathering soft kisses on the back of his neck, and pulls away reluctantly. The only time he's completely certain of what they have is when they're like this, pressed against on another, seemingly feeding off each other's thoughts as they move together in this dance. It's when he pulls away that all the little things seem to start separating them, and Sam doesn't like it. 

"Hey, Mr. Jealous, is it okay if I move away from the wall now? Because I'd really like to get out of these clothes." 

He notices Dean's looking at him now, smirking at him like he's pulled off some great con. Like he planned this... _Dammit!_ Dean had set him up. Sam is tempted to call him on it, but it's not worth it. He couldn't argue with Dean-logic.


End file.
